


I Wish I Could Have Loved You

by renjirain



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Character Death, Depression, Do Kyungsoo | D.O-centric, F/M, Guilt, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Regret, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Survivor Guilt, Tags Contain Spoilers, Teen Angst, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26604277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renjirain/pseuds/renjirain
Summary: It’s a roundabout story, but I will tell it as clearly as I can in my current dissociative fugue. It isn’t my story, but I feel the responsibility to tell it just as she used to feel her responsibility to worry: if I don’t, no one will.And this is a story that deserves to be told.Maybe if I'd told it sooner, I could have saved them.I hope I give my characters the narrative you deserve.I’m sorry I couldn’t give you anything else.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Park Chanyeol
Kudos: 8





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> normally, i won't even start to write anything until i have an entire plot and character map. this is the first thing i've written that just came freely, almost like my own memoir.
> 
> it will contain some depressing elements, but not much especially triggering, i hope. feel free to ask me for specific warnings.
> 
> the inspiration for this book came to me when i was reading Murakami Haruki's Norweigian Wood in the summer of 2020.
> 
> i hope you enjoy this story.

**INTRODUCTION**

I’m not the smartest of fellows. People used to think so because of my glasses and quiet character, but I really don’t have much intelligence to show for it.

Never mind; that isn’t how I wanted to start this story, though over the course of my tale, you’ll be sure to take note of my gormless nature; however, over the years, I’ve pondered if it’s perhaps ignorant ignorance—the type you don’t even realize you have. You think you’re informed enough, but there’s so much about the world around you that you don’t even know you don’t see.

I’m rambling again. They say I’ve been doing that a lot recently. Lately, my words haven’t been my own. They run unbidden from the typewriter of my mind, flowing in crimson rivulets over the curves of my brain. I can’t help the thoughts, I tell them. That’s okay, they tell me, no one can.

I used to tell her the same thing. I used to tell her thoughts aren’t actions; thoughts don’t make us who we are. 

She was such a contradiction. She worried about so many things. So many things that no one else seemed to realize happened. She carried them like responsibilities. No one else would even think to  _ think _ about these things, so she had to worry about them just so that someone would.

It’s nice to have someone worry about you, she’d say. I never understood her far-away tone.

But just like that, she’d switch. She’d drive herself mentally emaciated with these baseless worries born from dust, but turn around and say after any rant, “It doesn’t really matter to me.” She used to say that all the time. It doesn’t really matter. I still don’t know what didn’t really matter. It always sparked a scintilla of sadness in my marrow, and I never knew why.

I’m off-track again. They tell me she causes it more than anything else. I can’t say that I agree or not; I told you I don’t quite trust my own intelligence.

This truly isn’t how I wanted to start this at all. I apologize for my puerile and prolix prose. My ramshackle mind can’t seem to string together my thoughts in Elysian narrative anymore. See? I can’t even use that word right. Maybe my vocabulary is floating, too, down the river of my thoughts and out to open ocean where I can no longer grasp it. They tell me my words may come back to me more easily if I spoke more often. Things sound different in your head. You intrinsically understand your meaning so you don’t find the need to explain it properly with words.

They’re probably right; they usually are. Other people tend to have more sense than I do so I find myself listening to them but not acting on these maxims. I can’t find myself able to do anything anymore.

Right now, they would tell me to focus my attention on the story. The story I came to tell you. The one I am sitting here now to write for you. I’m in the present and can control my own actions so I will tell you of what I’ve learned.

It’s a roundabout story, but I will tell it as clearly as I can in my current dissociative fugue. It isn’t my story, but I feel the responsibility to tell it just as she used to feel her responsibility to worry: if I don’t, no one will.

And this is a story that deserves to be told.

But before that, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned. I’ve learned something, and this I have learned by myself and is the only thing I can trust.

Above all else, I know one truth.

The truest form of love: “I hope you find peace.” My wish is that this story finally gives my characters the peace you deserve.

I’m sorry I couldn’t give you anything else.

  
  
  
  


**PART 1**

**I was in** my final year of high school. I had had my license for an adequate amount of time so that now I could finally drive my friends legally (not that I hadn’t already been driving them constantly, but now it was legal).

My older brother was finishing his undergraduate degree and putting all of his time into fluffing his resume to get into a good graduate school. He had always been the ambitious one of the two of us, so my parents felt assured enough in their parenting because of his success that they left me to my own devices. I could spend all my time goofing with my friends and none studying or even applying to college and they wouldn’t care. She used to ask me if this bothered me. Why would it, I’d ask her. She said it felt as though they’d given up on me. I hadn’t noticed.

Unfortunately, my apathy was not limited to school but everything. The only friends I had she had made for us or had simply wiggled their way into my life over an abundance of years and time spent together.

He was the first outlier.

He was her cousin. His father had apparently up and left, taking with him his own side of the family and their only support system. (He never told me any of this, of course. This was just what she told me.) So his mom packed them up and moved them here to be closer to the only family she had—her sister and my own love’s mother. 

One day when my love had to finish a grueling math test at lunch and I didn’t particularly feel like sitting with our friends, I took my lunch to a quiet table behind the building outside next to the beautifully tall spruce trees whose sharp scent cut my lungs and helped me breath.

I still don’t know what compelled him to walk up to me, and I can’t quite recall how he got there; one moment, I just looked up and there he was, sitting across from me with a dopey look in his swollen eyes and an unsure smile on his lips.

“Mind if I sit with you?” I’m not sure what I said exactly, but he stayed. “That was really cool of you today.” I didn’t understand what he meant and told him so. “In AP Lit, with your partner. She was being kinda rude to you, and you just took it in stride. You seemed really cool.” I honestly hadn’t realized she was being rude. I can’t even tell you what her name was, and I don’t think I knew it then, either.

“You’re in my Lit class?” I asked instead.

“Yeah, and you’re really cool. You never raise your hand for anything, but you always know the answer. I thought your interpretation on Frankenstein was super dope, too, the other day.” I remembered reading Frankenstein, but I didn’t remember the interpretation he was referring to. “Did you mean that he meant for Creature to kill everyone he loved because he thought he deserved it?”

“If that’s how you want to interpret it,” I said because I still didn’t quite understand what he meant.

“Then how did you mean it?”

“However you interpret it is how I meant it.”

“See? That’s such a cool reply. Can I sit with you again tomorrow?” I didn’t really understand why he enjoyed that day so much that he’d want to go through it again.

I told him he could but, “Do you not have friends to sit with?”

“Some guys from my physics class asked me to sit with them, but they had bad intentions.” He had a leather braided bracelet on his left hand and a bunch of silicone bands on his right. He kept fiddling with the braided one, but never touched the others. I wondered what made it special.

“Did they tell you that?”

“No, they would never tell me that. I told them I had to wait and observe.”

“You couldn’t have asked them?”

“It wouldn’t have really mattered, would it?” I truly didn’t understand his way of speaking, and I still hadn’t really recovered from the fact that he had sat down across from me on purpose with the intention of talking to me. I still don’t get it. I asked him what he meant. “Well if I asked them if they had good intentions, they’d tell me the truth and say they have good intentions. But if they had bad intentions, they’d lie and tell me they have good intentions. So it doesn’t really matter if I ask them or not, get it?” I could follow his line of reasoning, but I couldn’t connect it to the big picture. It was always kinda like that with him—he could see all the intricate little silk threads tying everything around us together; the tangled cobweb of a world I saw was completely pellucid to him. 

This I envied of him.

The bell rang then, and the oblong shape of his eyes stretched to accommodate his surprise as he turned them towards the school building. He shook his head back to me (I’ve spent long hours of the night wondering how to phrase this phenomenon of his—sometimes when he turned to look at me, his head would rattle along the way like an old amusement park ride trying to make its way over the shaky and decrepit tracks. Alas, I digress). “When we’re better friends, we can walk to our next class together, but I don’t want to seem pushy so I’ll go now. See you tomorrow for lunch?”

Cotton balls filled my mouth and dried my tongue so I nodded.

I remember him picking up his lunch, shouldering his backpack, and walking away with a hop in his step. Funny, he never opened his lunch, I remember thinking.

\-- 

**I told her** about our strange lunch later, and she seemed put-off. “He’s so weird.” I didn’t tell her that I actually quite liked him but instead asked her what she meant. “I don’t know. Doesn’t he give you a kind of creepy vibe?” I scrunched my eyebrows and shook my head. “Maybe it’s a previous bias then. His family never came around a lot, and he was always a weird kid so when they did, I always just felt kind of off.”

“Do you see him a lot more now?” We were walking home, and she had her arm looped through mine, her backpack straps hung over both shoulders. I wore mine like this, too, but he always slung his over one shoulder. I wondered if it gave him backaches.

She picked at a loose string on my sleeve before deciding to rip it off. Only after she tucked the trash thread in her pocket did she answer. “Yeah, he and his mom have been coming over for dinner like twice a week. We don’t really talk much though. Our parents talk, and we eat.” I couldn’t imagine him sitting quietly at a dinner, but this was simply my impression from my one meeting with him. She turned to me then. “You should come! They’ll be by again on Thursday. Maybe he puts out a different vibe with you so I’ll be more at ease.”

I agreed to go. Of course I did: I would have moved mountains had she asked me to. So that Thursday I found myself picking my love up after her cross country practice and driving the familiar roads to her house. 

I helped her mother prepare dinner while she showered and changed. We nattered while we did our respective tasks: mine cleaning and chopping the vegetables, hers making the rice and salad. My love’s father was on the back porch grilling the meat. The sun set around five o’clock that time of year, and I remember gazing out the window above the sink, breathless at the Elysian sky mottled with splashes of peony pink, tangerine orange, daffodil yellow, streaks of cloudy blue, bruised purple, and bloody crimson. I stared at it, my breath held at the tip of my tongue until my love’s mother came and scolded me for running the water too long. 

The meat, rice, and salad were all ready by the time the doorbell rang, but the vegetables still needed about ten more minutes in the oven, and my love still hadn’t come downstairs.

“Kyungsoo, sweetheart, would you mind fetching the door?” Her hands were sudsy with dish soap.

Upon opening the door, I recall my first impression of my love’s aunt to be  _ beautiful _ , but in that quiet way. The kind of wispy beautiful that floats around your skin and cards its hands through your hair. The kind of beautiful that makes you want to sigh. 

Her wrinkles smiled with her when I introduced myself and opened the door wider. She had a wine bottle in one hand and a purse in the other, which I held for her while she took off and hung her coat.

“Look, it’s my lunch buddy!” my love’s cousin said upon seeing me. He toed off his shoes, speaking all the while, “Looks like we’re adding another meal to our relationship.” I hadn’t seen him since our one lunch together two days prior. He truly was a peculiar boy.

His mother and aunt chatted over wine in the kitchen while we set the table. “I’ve got the craziest story to tell you about my calc class today,” he spoke like he was out of breath. “You won’t believe it.” He said this like it was specifically  _ me _ who wouldn’t believe it, though I don’t know why. I’d like to tell you what his crazy story was, but to be honest with you, I can’t quite recall it: I was only half-listening while I focused on doing his share of the work while setting the table since apparently he needed his hands to tell the story. I can only tell you that whatever it was made me wheeze with laughter. One moment I was hardly listening, the next I was choking on my spit after snorting too hard. My obstreperous laughter made tears leak out my eyes and my side split with glee. I haven’t laughed that hard in years; I still smile thinking about it. He slapped the table when he laughed—again using his whole body—causing the mothers to rush into the dining room to see what the commotion was. I had tears in my eyes, but still I could see the mothers’ smiles splitting their faces open. There’s something about children’s laughter that enkindles happiness, can brighten any dull flame—even if those children are eighteen years old.

Everything settled down for dinner. We participated in group conversation so it wasn’t anything more interesting than “How is school going?” or “Are you settling in nicely?” or “How is so-and-so whom I haven’t seen or cared about in ten years?” While the conversation was dull, however, the food was amazing and the company comforting.

Eventually, my love’s aunt questioned me directly. “So Kyungsoo, Chanyeol tells me you two have a few classes together.” I panicked because he had only mentioned Lit, and I hadn’t noticed him anywhere else; this was the first time I had even heard his name. Perhaps someone more intelligent would have thought to ask for one sooner, but I hadn’t even realized I didn’t know it.

Somewhere, I think, he heard my plea as he cut in, “Yeah, we have AP Literature and American Government and Politics together. Kyungsoo’s really smart.” I didn’t choose to mention that AP Lit was the only high-level class I was in. I found his adulation slightly peculiar in the beginning, but even that didn’t give me the “creepy vibe” my love referred to; I wondered then—and now—if my love could simply sense something I couldn’t. Other people have always been better at sensing things than I have.

I can’t remember if I added anything, but if I had, my deep timber and terse responses probably put the conversation to bed; I have a bad tendency towards that.

I don’t remember much else of the dinner conversation aside from Chanyeol’s mother remarking, “We’re finally, officially, completely unpacked. So please let us host one of these now so I can stop feeling like a freeloader.” The sisters went back and forth with the pleasantries and niceties of hosting while my love’s father hummed to himself and chewed his meat for far too long.

During this arduous exchange, Chanyeol turned to my love and me. “You guys wanna walk to the park? It’s got good climbing trees and a playground.”

It sounded fun and childish to me, but I didn’t know if my love would be inclined to agree so I traced a question mark on the back of her hand underneath the table. She gave me a slim, soft smile. I can still picture it in my mind. I close my eyes, and I see it. I see the soft crescent creases on her cheeks, the stretched pink of her lips, the ripples by her eyes. She was so beautiful. I fell more in love everyday. 

“Sure. That sounds fun. Mom, that okay?” After explaining our plans, her mother sounded ecstatic that her daughter apparently wanted to spend time with Chanyeol. Chanyeol’s own mother had the softest look in her eyes, the same bloated eyes as her son, sclera too white and pure for me to gaze upon.

“He cottons to people so easily, that boy,” I remember hearing my love’s mother saying while we tucked ourselves into our coats and shoes. The other two made no indication of hearing so I followed their lead and didn’t comment.

Chanyeol’s mother’s reply was so soft and delicate, I felt its trip through my ear canal would damage the sound. “Not so much anymore…. Not so much anymore.” The other two had already started their descent down the walkway as I went to close the door. “I wish he smiled like that all the time.”

I wish I had recognized her weary tone sooner. Perhaps if I had been smarter, I would have understood.

\-- 

**“How do you** know about this park? Isn’t it like four miles from your house?” My love had one of her hands shoved in the pocket of my jacket, frosty fingers clenched in my warm ones.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Only two.” He walked slightly ahead of us, but not in an awkward way. He never turned around to check if we were still there; he either trusted us to keep following or he simply didn’t care. “It’s a nice midnight walk.”

When we finally got there, Chanyeol ran full-force to the swing set, jumping onto the seat with his feet and rattling the whole structure. He shifted his weight back and forth to generate power. The moonlight glinted off the metal chains on every swing.

“Pretty trees,” my love commented when we finally got there.

“Ah, yes, our coniferous firs.” I didn’t know what coniferous meant then. Now I know conifers are types of evergreens, whose needles don’t shed as opposed to deciduous trees whose leaves fall yearly. He was always using words I didn’t really understand. I ended up downloading a vocabulary app on my phone which quizzed me with new words throughout the day just to feel less inferior when I was with him. He was always saying how smart and “cool” I was, but I found myself being more and more bewitched by him everyday.

“Stop saying words to sound smart,” my love complained. This had always been one of her pet peeves: she abhorred pompous conceit.

“It was to inform, not belittle. I’m not trying to make you feel dumb.”

“I didn’t say it was to make me feel dumb but you feel smart.” She had taken her hand out of my coat to cross her arms; this, I could tell, was her defensive stance for I recognized it well enough.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit gauche at times.” There was a breath of silence. “Sorry. I meant socially awkward. I heard that one.”

She cracked a smile which gave me permission to grin as well. “Are these firs the climbing trees you sang praise about?” I remember him opening his mouth before visibly biting his tongue. Now, I know the correct phrase is “to sing the praises of,” but at the time, I did not notice this moment of personal growth for Chanyeol.

He leapt—quite wobbly, might I add, which made my heart leap with him—before hopping over to me. “Yeah, check this out.” As he reached his long limbs up to wrap around one of the taller branches, my love placed a kiss on my cheek and went to play on the swings.

While we jumped dangerously from branch to branch, my love laughed raucously, yelling chides to be careful, which only prompted us to attempt even foolhardier leaps. Lord, I loved her laughs.

I apologize if my tone sounds wobbly. I’m finding it most difficult to recount the times the three of us spent together. Looking back, these were the most halcyon days of my life, though of course I didn’t appreciate them for what they were at the time. I know it now because of the frisson I remember running down my spine; it curled around the marrow of my bones and electrocuted me with life.

Alas, all the best things vanish before you can grasp them.

I rub my eyes sometimes, and as the phosphenes dance across my vision, I see us three kids running through the grass in that park.

And just as the lights fade into the back of my eyelids, so do they.

As we were walking back, Chanyeol’s mom pulled up on the road beside us, made a comment about beauty sleep and the late hour. Chanyeol waved obnoxiously hard as he climbed into the passenger seat. “See you for our next meal!” he said. It seemed as though he was only speaking to me.

As my love and I walked back to her house, her arm looped through mine and her head leaned against my shoulder, she spoke, “He may not be all that bad, I guess.” I place a kiss atop her head. “He’s much better with you around though.” I’m not sure why, but that made me happy.

\--

**The next week,** Chanyeol started sitting with my love and me at lunch. Often, though, with all of her high-level classes, she found herself in some classroom finishing some assignment for some AP teacher at lunch or breaks; this left Chanyeol and I to sit at the outdoor tables by the trees. 

I can’t say whether I liked it better when my love was present or not, but I know I cherished that week of ours together. On Tuesday and Thursday, I joined them for dinner again; though Tuesday was at Chanyeol’s house. I felt proud, in a way, for making a friend, even though Chanyeol did all of the work.

Once, he laughed so hard, he spit his soup out all over my shirt. He didn’t even apologize, just laughed harder.

They left indelible marks on my skin. I look down at the black cotton of my shirt now and see it mottled with tomato basil soup. I look at my elbow and see her soft palm wound through it. I look at my eyes through the mirror and see them looking back at me.

It hurts. On days like these. On days like these, I sit behind my eyelids and I count the darkness and pray pray that you’ll be here if I open my eyes. But I always do, and you never are.

On days like these, I feel like I’m slipping, gliding, like dew on a pillowy petal. Someday soon, my dipped dew will dry and disappear, waiting as wind to fly far away by the blow of a whistling whisper. On days like these, I feel it already has. 

Someday soon, the darkness you’ve left behind will consume and there will be no light left behind my eyelids to see you and you’ll fade. 

On days like these, it aches. My heart feels empty, but I know it isn’t because I can feel every living tendon and it  _ aches _ .

On days like these, I miss you so much, I want to join you.

But I can’t.

And so I write on.

She died the next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to comment if you notice errors or typos
> 
> 4k, posted 9/25/20


	2. Part 2

**The police held** an investigation since it was such a freak accident. It wasn’t released until much later what her cause of death was so the students at school had a field day with it.

Some thought it was a hit-and-run. Others claimed it was drug overdose. A few thought I killed her (I was quiet and creepy, they claimed).

Most thought Chanyeol killed her.

The police called me in for questioning a few days after it happened. They found me suspicious as they accused me of speaking in a prevaricating manner. I don’t understand this because I find myself to be the most honestly blunt person I know. I can’t remember a single other thing from the questioning or investigation in general so it’s just as probable that I confessed to murder than that I sat there in complete silence the entire time.

I’ll never know. A month later, they closed the investigation and labeled it as “death by misadventure” since she was out running late at night.

The Thursday she died, I stayed home to meet with a classmate instead of joining her family for dinner. My partner and I had a big Spanish project due the next day that we had to finish (and start). I sent her a good night text around midnight with promises of a picnic at the park after her practice the next day. I had assumed her lack of response meant she was already asleep… but she was gone.

For the funeral, I wore the black tux I had bought for prom with my love the year before. Her older sister gave the eulogy, then other members of the family, close friends, and I shared our favorite stories of her. I spoke of the time she demanded we drive two hours to the beach, only to get there and realize she had forgotten her swimsuit. She ran right into the ocean in her bra and jeans (though I said shirt) and dragged me in with my shirt still on. I chose to leave out the part where we found a secluded spot and made love on the sand. It was so uncomfortable: there was sand everywhere, and some mother gull kept dive-bombing us for venturing too close to her chicks. We laughed the whole time. On the way back, she soaked the leather seats of my car, and I was in love.

I don’t remember much from the months following my love’s death. In the beginning, my love’s family and I tried to spend time together since we were experiencing a shared grief, but it hurt me to be around them just as much as it hurt them to be around me. We saw her everywhere, and it stung to be reminded.

Oddly enough, it was Chanyeol who kept me company most often. Our other friends tried to comfort me early on, but eventually realized they couldn’t reach me and just let me be. They tried to continue on like normal, thinking that could raise my spirits.

I appreciate their efforts however fruitless they proved to be.

I started walking to school. I lived about five miles away so it took me over an hour to get there. I was often late, but it didn’t really matter to me. I couldn’t hear my lessons no matter how much I tried.

About once or twice a week, though, I’d snap out of my catabolic stupor and find Chanyeol in step next to me. He drove to school so I always imagined he’d see me and pull over to walk with me; I never asked him.

My way home was more of a wander than a walk; I ofttimes found myself somewhere I had never been. On some street from a nuclear family’s wet dream or a dirty back alley that I never realized existed in our town. I always found my way home in the end, I suppose. No matter how lost I seemed to feel.

Once I found myself at a park. I’m wondering now if I had meant to end up where Chanyeol, my love, and I went that night. I don’t know, but it rained and I felt loved. At least someone was with me.

I stayed there for a long time. I just stood and stared at the sky, fighting my corneal reflex so I could feel the rain bathe my eyes, cleanse it of the salt water. It felt like a baptism of sorts.

Eventually, a man pulled up on the road beside me. “Hey, kid!” he yelled. He drove a sard-colored pickup; I turned my eyes but didn’t move. “What’re doing out in the rain?” I finally rounded to face him and focused on the scent of petrichor. “You just gonna stand there or do you want a lift?”

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, the dangers of getting into a stranger’s car did run through my mind; they just didn’t matter to me. 

My rucksack was soaked, and water pooled on the car mat below it. I apologized for being wet. “Well what d’ya expect standing out in the rain’s gonna get you?” I didn’t answer; he started driving. “All right, where you want me to take ya?” I couldn’t think of anywhere I wanted to go. Apparently, my silence stretched too long to be suitable. “Fine. Ya hungry?” I finally looked him in the eyes. “Well, it’s clear you don’t wanna go home. How ‘bout some food?” I nodded.

As the radio played 1980’s Top Ten Country Hits, I stared out the window and watched the confluence and divergence of the rivulets of rain splattered across the glass.

We sat at a diner I vaguely remembered visiting when I was younger. It seemed more like an anachronism than normal when paired with the weather and the old country music. When I tried to order only a coffee, the man took it upon himself to get us two overly-stuffed hamburgers with fries.

“I like days like this,” the man said, taking off his cap and brushing his hair back before replacing it. It hid less of his face now. Somehow I found his snaggletooth and eyebrow scar charming. “Lots of folks can’t stand the rain, but I’m a farmer at heart. Rain’s good for crops. Can’t ever get enough of it.”

When I didn’t say anything, just swirled the stirring stick in my coffee, the man sighed. My reticent nature tends to preclude easy conversation, and I felt a bit bad.

“You got a name?”

“Most people do.” I hadn’t looked up from the turbid coffee.

“All right, smartass. You gonna tell me it, or should I just call you kid?”

I didn’t answer for a while, but eventually I looked out the window and said, “Lewis,” because I had just finished  _ The Screwtape Letters _ that day in study hall. 

“All right, Lewis, I’m Dan.” I wondered if he always started his sentences this way or if my intractable personality was pulling the words out of him. “Any particular reason you don’t wanna go home?” There wasn’t so I told him so. “You can be honest with me. I had a rough dad myself.”

“No. Just don’t wanna go anywhere.”

He considered this for a few breaths. “Your heart’s broke,” he concluded. “That’s rough, Lewis. Was she pretty?”

I was still watching the rain fall. “Beautiful.”

He made a croak like a groan. “Aw, it sure hurts to watch the pretty ones go. My ex-wife was hot as hell.” He followed my gaze out the window. “One of many reasons she was too good for me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said and not just because I felt like I should.

“It’s all right, Lewis. It was a long time ago. She’s got a new guy, and he treats our two girls well. Better than I ever could.” A look of surprise must have crossed my face because he said, “What? You think I don’t look like a dad?”

I shook my head. “You couldn’t drive by a lonely kid in the rain. That’s a dad.” 

We looked each other in the eyes for only the second time. I felt a shiver run through my body that felt like understanding; this comfort mitigated my sharp defenses. “My name’s not Lewis.”

His eyes softened, and his smile made it seem like his snaggletooth was looking at me. “I know.” He never asked for my name, though. I felt he knew me well enough not to need it. Our eating filled in for the conversation, and a certain quietude settled over me.

He paid our bill, thanked our server, and led me towards the exit. Before we walked out from the safety of the awning, he yanked my hood over my head. I almost cried.

When we pulled up in front of my house, he handed me a business card. It read “Barker Tiles” with an address and a number. I looked at him in confusion. “I’m always there. Just ask for Dan.” We held eye contact. “If you ever wanna talk about your girl.”

The genuity in his eyes tipped my tears over the edge of my lids. Neither of us looked away. “I lost her.” I don’t remember hearing the words over the rain, just breathing them. “I lost her, and now she’s gone.”

“No one’s ever gone for good.”

I shook my head, and the tears shook with me. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“There are lots of ways to get redemption.”

He waited for me to get to the door before driving away.

His words never left me, but I failed them all the same.

\--

**Months later, a** few days into winter break, my brother knocked on the door to my bedroom. He had come home rather than take interim classes to be with me. It was sweet, but it hardly mattered: I looked straight through anyone I saw. Sometimes I caught him staring at me supplicatingly, as if pleading with me to be okay. 

“Someone’s here to see you.” I knew of no one who wanted to see me, but I stood from bed and wondered why I hadn’t heard the doorbell from one room over.

Chanyeol was wearing a bright red beanie and a flannel under his coat that made him look like a lumberjack. “You wanna go to the park?” I looked at him, and he seemed to know. “Not that one.” 

He drove us to a park some ten miles away. He had lived there less than six months and yet knew where they all were; I wish I had asked him why.

He led us over to the playground before sitting on one side of a seesaw. “Takes two,” he said, pointing to the other side. I sat down, and we went up and down, up and down, up and down for what could have been 5 minutes or 50. The rusty hinges of the seesaw stuck and squeaked at every tilt of its axis, lulling me into a hypnotized daze.

At some point, we got off. I perched against a tree trunk while he lay back on the grass. “Do you care about being remembered?” 

I didn’t know what he meant so I said, “I don’t know.”

“Are you always so myopic?” Myopic. Lacking imagination, foresight, or intellectual insight. Yes, I am. “Do you want to leave something behind for people to remember you by? Does it matter if you’re forgotten and your memory fades and no one cares that you’re gone?”

I’d never thought of it until then so I stayed quiet, pondering until he spoke again. “I’m terrified.” He still lay supine, looking up at the starless night. Storm clouds brewing for a future fight. “What’s the point of living if dying erases everything you ever did?”

I couldn’t follow what he meant then. “I think it’d be nice to disappear,” I whispered. Evaporate into thin air. Burn my bones to ash and lift them to the wind, carried in the dust of the afternoon breeze.

“I thought we could’ve been happy…the three of us.” He turned to me, finally, and I always found myself wanting to look away when his eyes met mine. They were too bright; the light of a star imploding. It hurt to look. “Don’t you think?”

I wanted to tell him that sometimes memories sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks, but I couldn’t. “It doesn’t matter now,” I said instead.

How I wish we could’ve been happy.

\-- 

**Chanyeol and I** kept up our late-night park escapades even after winter break, well into the snowy season.

Looking back, I wonder why my mom wasn’t worried I was out at all the odd hours of the night running around with a kid she didn’t know, but I think she saw him as the salve to my burn. Someone to understand just a fraction of my ache.

I found myself choosing to eat with him rather than my and my love’s old friends who tried to patch the hole she left by smiling brighter and laughing harder. 

I found just being in Chanyeol’s company ameliorated my gloomy disposition, even if it could do little for my cracked heart. Sometimes he would tell me the plot of a movie he’d seen or explain a new video game he wanted to buy. Sometimes he’d just tell me about his day.

And he was never offended. Even when I refused to reply, even when my replies were more acerbic than they needed to be.

I remember one particular day at school, he turned to me at lunch. “Let’s go after school.” I raised my brow, tacitly directing him to explain. “You know,  _ out _ . Like we do. Get an early start.”

“Won’t it be creepy for us with little kids around?”

“Fine. Then we can hang out at my house for a bit and then go. Sound like a plan?”

Aside from the one family dinner, I had never been to Chanyeol’s house nor had he mine. It seemed like a step forward in our relationship.

Looking back, I wish I hadn’t said, “Sure.”

\--

**“My mom’s got** a new beau. So after work lately, she’s been out with him.” It seemed strange to come home to an empty house; my mom made and sold blueprints from home, and my dad was a school teacher. I always had someone waiting for me.

I sat down and untied my shoes to leave them at the door; Chanyeol took his off in the most maladroit way possible, tripping over the laces and leaving them folded in on each other in the walkway. Hands in pocket and shoulders high, he said, “I’ve got video games in my room?”

I gamed a fair amount as a teenage boy, but Chanyeol’s collection seemed infinite. He had bookshelves full of them and at least four different types of game consoles. I tried to cover my admiration and surprise, but my expression slipped when my gaze caught the waste bin tipping over with the amount of energy drinks and stimulation shots.

His ears burned sheepish. “Ha, yeah, I, uh, I don’t sleep well.”

“Well how could you with all these video games tempting you?” He laughed, and the nerves that pulled his shoulders up like a puppet on a string let loose.

I didn’t see the dark skies under his eyes from nights with eyes wide open. I didn’t see the tums in his nightstand drawer from bilous mornings. I didn’t see the guilt crawling down his throat and filling his lungs with glue.

How it hurt to breathe.

We played Call of Duty for about an hour before Chanyeol suggested we eat. The only notification he’d received was an email from school. He heated us up a frozen pizza, and our conversation bounced within the boundaries of school and trivial assignments.

The next time we entered the bedroom, I noticed the guitar hiding behind the torchière in the corner. I asked him if he played. He hardly spared it a glance before pointedly rounding his gaze. “Not anymore.” I asked him why not. “It’s nugatory.”

I didn’t ask again.

\--

**When we got** to the park, Chanyeol took off his jacket and lay recumbent on the day-old snow coating the damp grass in just a tee.

“You’ll either freeze to death or be eaten by mosquitos.”

His eyes were shut. “Not bad ways to die.”

Neither seemed particularly pleasant to me, but I stayed quiet. I wanted to ask why his mom didn’t question his whereabouts or check to see where he was, but I didn’t want to overstep my bounds after the guitar.

“They say freezing to death is insidious,” he spoke. I only knew the word from the horror movie. “It slowly creeps up on you until you just fall asleep…..” He opened his eyes, but I couldn’t see the glass film over them. “Doesn’t that sound peaceful?”

Birds flew overhead and by the picnic tables in search of carrion. Even if they managed to find them, they were probably all frozen, I found myself thinking. What a pessimist. She always told me that.

When my attention fell back on the boy on the ground, he was looking at me. “What?”

He sighed. “Never mind.”

We stayed there much longer than normal despite the frost slithering its way into our veins and chilling our limbs. We took turns throwing pine cones and then chasing after the other’s. Chanyeol, I learned, had much longer and stronger arms than I, but I played dirty; so while I tumbled farther over lumps of ice, he found himself climbing trees in search of loose cones.

Eventually I was shaking so violently, it was affecting my throws. “You’re gonna bite off your tongue with that shivering of yours.” I hadn’t noticed my chattering teeth. “Come on, let’s go back to mine.”

When we got back, I began to pack up my things, but Chanyeol stopped me. “Dude, you’re freezing. Wait a second to warm up.”

“I’m not gonna warm up anytime soon,” I said through the clacking of my teeth.

“Then go take a hot shower; that’ll warm you up faster than anything else will.” I can’t remember if I acquiesced right away or if he had to take a minute convincing me, but I found myself stripping in his black-tiled bathroom incongruous with the rest of the house. I found my lips turning up when I saw the OGX Quenching Coconut Curls shampoo and conditioner: I found it strange, but in that quirky, nice way. I didn’t understand the feeling.

He knocked while I was rinsing the tropics out of my hair. “Hey, towels are under the sink, and I grabbed you some clothes since yours are probably soaked.” I thanked him. “I’mma leave them on the toilet.” I thanked him and dried myself with a black towel. He left me a bulky Black Veil Brides tee and basketball shorts, even a pair of boxers—all black. My lips tugged up; he seemed to have taken notice of my color preference.

When I walked back into the room, he was sitting on the window sill petting a calico cat.

“You have a cat?”

“Sometimes.” I took a step closer, and the cat jumped out the window. Chanyeol was dressed in black shorts and a flannel with only two middle buttons done.

I threw my thumb over my shoulder. “Uh, I think I’m gonna head out now.”

“It’s late. You should just stay the night.”

My brows furrowed, and words tumbled over the white planes of my teeth like a landslide. “But we’ve never done that before.” This made him giggle, sonorous and breathy at once.

“Well I wonder how ever will we fix that?” he teased, his mouth crooked. Before, the words stampeded on their own, now I couldn’t force them out. I hadn’t felt that way before. I remember distinctly wondering what was wrong and why the electric circuits in my brain felt like they had shorted out. “Is that a yes?” I don’t remember nodding or making any movement at all really, but he clapped his hands and went, “Great! I’m gonna go brush my teeth.”

I lay under his quilt-covered duvet later, my worry set and the moon risen.

He picked his head up beside me. “Have you ever read  _ Werther _ ?” I had no idea what that meant and told him so. “You know,  _ The Sorrows of Young Werther _ by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe?”

“That can’t possibly be his name.”

“You really don’t know Goethe?” I shook my head. He was looking at the ceiling now. “It’s a beautiful text. The book’s basically an autobiography, but officially it’s fiction. It’s letters from a guy who’s in love with this girl who’s already got a guy.” It sounded terribly cheesy and boring, but I didn’t say that because those are things you don’t say. “The whole time, though, he’s super depressed and kinda suicidal, and he’s writing to his buddy Wilhelm who’s an absolute  _ ignoramus _ because he doesn’t see any of the obvious warning signs, though this is before classified depression, of course.” He scratched the tip of his nose with his pinky finger. Peculiar, he was. “He bounces back and forth between melancholy and euphoria, but in the end, he kills himself.”

“Sounds like a downer.”

“I was relieved, actually.” My silence voiced my question. “When he killed himself, I was relieved. I would have been disappointed and sad for him if he didn’t go through with it in the end.” Something about this didn’t sit right with me. The kind of feeling where you know something’s off, you’re just not sure what. When there’s a painting of a horse above your couch where a landscape used to be. When the driver’s seat is set back and your foot is  _ just _ a tad father from the pedal than it typically is. When your teacher dyes their hair slightly darker than their natural tone.

Fucking Wilhelm.

“I don’t get it,” I told him.

He pushed his breath through his nose and shifted his legs under the blanket so they were pressed to mine. I found it strange, but I understood the need for human warmth. “He’d feel like a failure…. I’m…satisfied that he got his wish. He deserved to succeed.”

That didn’t seem right to me. Poor fucking benighted Wilhelm.

Why couldn’t he see?

I didn’t know what to say. Normally, I’d stay silent, but something pushed its way out my throat and kicked my teeth open. “Have you seen any of the new Spider-man movies?”

He turned onto his shoulder, face closer to me. “No.” It felt like he wasn’t breathing.

A cough tumbled off my tongue. “They’re good.” The cough left my throat parched: I swallowed. “It’s cool to see him as a kid. Makes it more relatable.”

Chanyeol hummed and pressed his face into the crook of my neck. He was breathing; I felt it on my raised hairs. I understood the want for warmth.

The lights were off. My eyes were open so wide, I was worried they would begin to water. I held off my need to blink and stared at the moonlight reflecting off the dresser in the corner. “Um, have you seen any of the Marvel movies?”

He threw his arm over my stomach, and when he spoke, it was directly against my skin, “I liked Ironman a lot as a kid.” A cloud passed over the moon, and the reflection against the dresser vanished. “Do you ever get lonely?”

I’ve gone over this occurrence dozens upon thousands of times in my head. In dark rooms, I can see it. On silent nights, I can hear it. In desperate loneliness, I can feel it.

This is how I’ve decided to write it. I can’t be sure it’s right with words. The movements don’t fit within the letters; the feelings curl awkwardly between the commas. On my worst days, it’s all-encompassing, and this is the most I could do without shattering.

I didn’t answer, and the room was silent for so long I was certain he had fallen asleep; my eyes still hadn’t shut.

And I felt lips on my neck.

They pecked center, left, right, up, down, 

softly, 

softly, 

softly.

I held my breath. His nose nuzzled the skin, and he dropped his lips to me a few more times. When the air from his lungs left his nose, it cooled the warm surface left by his saliva.

My lungs felt like they might explode, but I didn’t dare breathe. His kisses were slow, soft, warm. I can still feel them tickling behind my ear.

A soft sigh dried the spit on my neck, but could never erase the feeling.

Almost ten minutes later, I felt his breath even out and his body sag with exhaustion.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

I understood the loneliness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed  
> posted: 10/6/20  
> 4k


	3. Part 3

**The feeling of** floating. It’s so peaceful sometimes I want to cry. Yesterday, I was forced to take a walk: these writings are hard for me, you see. After writing of that night with Chanyeol, I felt the weight of a ten-pound bag of rice suffocate me; it pressed on my chest, and it’s so heavy. So heavy. So heavy it sometimes takes a walk to be able to breathe again.

You may see me as pathetic: my blame is naught. But please understand: it’s difficult to vouchsafe this information. These memories that twirl around my grey matter like ghosts, like smoke—everywhere, but intangible. These cerebral events tie my feet to weights, and sometimes it’s all I can do not to jump into the ocean. 

Floating. So oddly peaceful. Just waiting for your body to give up and sink, sink, sink.

I walked to a park. I really must invest in a dog, my brother tells me: it’s much creepier now to meander without direction in parks where children run free as a grown male. I tell him it’s too much work to care for rather than express my true reluctance:

I’m afraid it will leave me in the end, too.

I wouldn’t blame it.

I apologize. I was in the park, seated at a bench, observing the cumulus clouds rolling this way and that, when a soccer ball knocked against my feet. A boy no older than eight ran to collect it. I reached out to hand it to him. I expected a simple thank you and that would be that, but instead the boy asked, “Why are you sad?”

“Who says I’m sad?” I said. The boy was barefoot. I envied his carefree innocence.

“You look sad. You look like Mom.” It astounds me how children just say things. My heart squeezed, and I truly thought my chest would cave it, but it didn’t—it never does, so I live on, crushed.

I wanted to ask why his mom was sad, but my brother’s warnings of my seeming like a creep echoed off the empty surfaces in my brain, so instead I said, “Because I miss someone.”

He told me he understood. “I miss Noni. I want to see her, but she doesn’t recognize me anymore, and it makes me sad. I don’t really get it. Mom says her mind is gone, but her soul is still in there. I don’t get it, but I’m little.” He looked straight in my eyes, and it unnerved me. I felt undeserving just like when Chanyeol used to look at me. “Why don’t  _ you _ go see them?”

I told him I was ashamed.

“I don’t know what that means, but I’m little.” His shaggy brown hair fell over his eyes, but they stared straight through to my soul all the same. “I understand, though.”

“You do?” I was worried a scandalized mom would come and snatch the child away soon, warning him of stranger danger.

“Sure. I understand lots of things even though I’m little.” I wanted to ask him who kept repeating that phrase to him to cause him to justify it in every statement, but again my tongue curled the words over and forced them back down my throat.

His friends called him back, telling him to hurry up so they could continue the game. He yelled back, “Coming!” He thanked me and called me “mister.” Before he left to resume his game, he said, “Maybe they miss you, too.”

I hoped they didn’t: I didn’t deserve it.

And yet a selfish yearning in my heart prayed that they did.

An egoistic monster I am. Pathetic and greedy and undeserving—I miss them more everyday.

I apologize. Though it’s hard, I will write on, live on. I owe them that much.

\-- 

**I woke up** some hours later, just a heartbeat before sunrise. Reality burned my eyelids, and the air was empty of scent. I rose from the empty bed and walked down the hallway to see Chanyeol sitting out on the balcony. It was snowing, and it was beautiful. 

I wish I had appreciated such things back then.

I opened the door and shivered upon the impact of the icy breeze that left cuts upon my skin. He hadn’t changed from the barely-buttoned flannel and the basketball shorts. “Aren’t you freezing?”

He didn’t look up. I couldn’t follow his gaze, but I felt the absence in it. “Of course.” His skin made the faintest vibration from the chill.

“Then why are you still out here?” The answer was as absent as the summer sun. I shut the sliding door and took a seat next to him on the mat as an attempt to keep the wintry ground from seeping through. 

I can’t explain it. Even after my abundant therapy sessions, I’m still unsure.

He seemed a flotsam—something or someone deemed worthless, unimportant—and my heart ached because I couldn’t understand why.

Guilt clawed its way through my veins and left my insides feeling raw.

It was silent. I wasn’t one to initiate physical contact then, and I’m not now, but I found myself leaning uncomfortably over the space between us and wrapping my arms around his expansive shoulders.

I was too afraid and awkward to move, but as always, Chanyeol took the initiative and pulled me closer. My head was stiff and felt clumsy laid just above his knees, barely touching because I couldn’t bring myself to rest my full weight on him. 

I felt the need to whisper ‘Sorry,’ but I couldn’t find a reason to, so I kept mum. My vanquished words made the air taste bitter. My back was flexed and beginning to ache at the base, but I could hardly feel the comfort to breathe let alone move: I felt any disturbance would break the precarious balance in the air, and it might crash down all around us.

I felt a pressure on my head…and warmth. I’m not sure if it’s a product of my embellished memory, but he was always so warm.

He breathed in, and my heart stopped. He breathed out, and the weight on my inelegantly-positioned body increased.

I should have known it then—when he smelled my hair—but again, I am stupid and terrible and ignorant and imbecilic and moronic and gormless and a goddamned fucking Wilhelm and I didn’t know.

Chanyeol, I’m so sorry I didn’t know.

I don’t know why I know this looking back because there’s no way I would have been able to feel it, but I know—I know for certain—that a tear drop fell upon my hair, and I’ve never felt worse.

The remorse and shame and self-reproach, I didn’t understand, but I also knew. 

I knew I deserved it.

I deserve it now more than ever.

\--

**We never talked** about it, but an understanding passed between us, and for some reason, I felt my heart open more and more to this boy I hadn’t known six months prior.

Some time later—you’ll have to excuse my piecemeal memory—I was walking the hallways during break (it was pouring hail outside, and I had nothing better to do). I watched as a group of girls approached a carrot-top pulling a notebook out of her locker. A girl in the group wore a navy sweatshirt with a messenger bag hanging off her shoulder; I watched as she nodded to her friends before tripping in front of Redhead, spilling her coffee obnoxiously—and unbelievably—far as it sprayed all over Redhead. “OMG, Rachel! I am so sorry!” Messenger Bag exclaimed.

Redhead shut her eyes, sighed, and murmured, “It’s fine.”

“Did it get your notes? Oh no, I’m so sorry! I would let you borrow mine, but I literally left them in my car. At least you have your gym clothes to wear!” The girls clenched their jaws to keep their teeth in and their smiles at bay while Messenger Bag pretend-fretted over Redhead’s ruined sweater.

The gaggle of girls left, poorly hiding their giggles in their sleeves while Redhead softly banged her forehead against her locker. I never understood their need to label the poor girl as ignominious, but as I’ve stated: I’m not of the brightest stars, just one destined to spark to life at the same time it’s extinguished for lack of light and viability.

I don’t even have the brains, the smarts to use these words. I’m not worthy enough to call them my own. These words I’ve breathed in straight from Chanyeol’s exhale. But I owe him this. If this is the only way I can keep him, I will. In his words that I never understood—like coniferous and gauche and myopic and nugatory and insidious and ignoramus and—I will keep you here, with me, with your words. If it’s all I have. 

A boy from my class—one of the only ones I remembered because he went to Korean Sunday school with me growing up—approached Redhead.

I continued to watch on, not caring if anyone noticed my staring (I’ve never been stellar at social cues: my love normally had to point out when I missed a pivotal hint that most others would have intuitively noticed).

“Baekhyun, I’m fine. Leave me alone,” I heard Redhead mutter.

“God, did those fucking bitches do this? They just don’t know when to quit.” He appeared distressed and enraged but kept his volume relative to the typical hustle and bustle of the highschool hallway where no one cared about an individual’s problems and everyone pretended they only existed inside this building, no external life to be tied to.

I was never very good at playing pretend, but it appeared more bothersome to me then more than ever. 

“Stop cursing. You know how that bugs me. I’m fine.” She shook her notebooks free of their lingering droplets, but there was no saving the content: they were drenched and unsalvageable.

“Fine. Is that your bio notebook?” Redhead affirmed this. “God, they suck. They know that’s an open-notes test.” He dug around his own rucksack before producing a blue notebook the same color as Messenger Bag’s sweatshirt. “Here, take mine.”

“Dude, you’re in AP, it probably won’t even be the same content. Just chill. I’ll be fine, okay? That’s the bell. Just go.” She shut her locker and stuffed her sodden books into her bag. 

“Just take it. Please? It’ll make me feel better.” The boy had his hair dyed an unnatural color (any Korean with hair lighter than onyx was surely dying it), and a pout that pulled his lips down into a wishbone shape. I wondered if someone broke his face, their wish would be granted. 

Redhead acquiesced, and all three of us moved on to our respective periods.

I walked to biology and found my seat in the middle near the window where I had an unobstructed view of Messenger Bag in front of me and Redhead to my left. I hadn’t even realized I knew them until that moment.

Mr. Garcia passed out our Unit 6 tests and paused at Redhead’s bench. “Rachel, why does your notebook say ‘Baekhyun Byun’ on it?” I could only see the back of Messenger Bag’s head, but I could feel her pride and validation wafting off her from our three meter distance, a pristine, checkered-covered notebook sitting in front of her.

“Sorry, I spilled coffee on my notes so he lent me his.” My throat hurt from watching her lie. I was afraid to speak up, but I was afraid to stay quiet. I was afraid.

What a pathetic coward I am.

“As much as I appreciate Baekhyun’s kindness, you know that isn’t how it works here so,” he held his hand out expectantly, “hand it over. I’ll give it back to him at fifth period so he can use it for his  _ own  _ test.”

Redhead handed it over easily, and Mr. Garcia went on passing out tests, the blue notebook held under his left arm.

My coffee from that morning roiled in my stomach, and still I sat there.

Another victim passing under my nose.

I wish I had learned.

I wrote my name and date at the top of my paper and pulled out my own notebook.

I watched—I  _ watched _ —as Redhead’s paper found drop after drop of saltwater on it as she wrote down her answers, skipping the first few.

Number one was “haploid,” and I wanted more than anything to tell her.

Alas, regret had already settled into my marrow and become complacent in my skin.

\--

**I think it** was later that week that I sat at our tree-view lunch table sans Chanyeol. He was probably correcting essays for our AP Lit teacher: she gave him extra credit for helping her out, but no one was supposed to know.

Abruptly, an old friend of my love’s and mine sat across from me. I can still picture his sharp eyebrows and severe glare which caused so many boys to be intimidated by him. He was harmless and childish, but appearances can be deceiving. I haven’t seen him since our 5-year high school reunion…one of us had to go, I could do that for them. He had married his high school sweetheart, Joy, a sweet brunette in the year below us. She giggled and hung off his arm, and it was obvious they fit. 

I haven’t missed my love that much in a while, but that night I was in bed at 8 and didn’t sleep until the first rays of light filtered through my closed blinds.

“Okay, dude. It’s intervention time,” Sehun started. I raised a brow and looked around. It seemed like a pretty pell-mell intervention to me, but I didn’t say this. “Jongin’s coming in a bit. He’s buying lunch.” Ah, yes. I forgot they hardly left each other’s sides. To be sewed at the hip, ever connected. What an incredible thing.

“May I ask why I need an intervention?” My leftover pasta was cold, and I didn’t have the energy to heat it up in the microwave in the choir room as I normally would have.

Things tasted bland and chalky no matter their temperature back then.

“We haven’t seen you in weeks. You dumped all of us and have Chanyeol trailing after you like a shadow.” I didn’t see what was wrong with this, and my chest itched from the flak being thrown at Chanyeol, but I squished my cold, flavorless noodles between my teeth and kept eye contact.

He sighed and his knife-cut eyebrows softened from a harsh V shape to a smoother valley. “He can’t replace her, you know?”

It took every muscle in my neck to swallow the mush in my mouth. I was afraid I wasn’t strong enough, but of course it went down. It was easier to swallow than Sehun’s words anyway.

“I know it’s hard, but you can’t just find someone to distract you from ever thinking of her. It’s not gonna help you in the long run.” He flicked his head to force his hair out of his eyes, but it moved right back to its original position. He didn’t fix it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, but I did.

Sehun looked around. “Damn it, where is Jongin? He has the paper with all of our bullet-points on it. I knew I should’ve waited for him.” He hadn’t even taken his lunch out. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here if I waited.”

He was right. “Well I’m done now, and I’ve gotta talk to Gavin about my history test.” I tossed the rest of my uneaten pasta into the trash can, tupperware and all. If Sehun noticed, he didn’t comment.

A breath passed his lips. “We’re here for you, you know?” He grabbed my wrist when I bent to pull my backpack onto my shoulder. “We lost her, too.” His eyes were shining with sincerity, and I had to look away lest I be blinded.

“I have to go.” I tugged my bag off the seat and walked away before it even touched my back. I turned around before entering the building and saw Jongin walking up to Sehun with his tray in one hand. The other was resting on Sehun’s shoulder as he sat with his head on his arms.

My greatest skill: to hurt.

\--

**My mom suggested** therapy to me sometime later. I went to one session and couldn’t force a single syllable through my teeth. My tongue dug into the crevice between them, trying to push the letters forcibly through the opening, but it didn’t work. I got my lips to part once or twice, but all the sudden, my tongue was too heavy to lift; it sat like a dead horse on the roof of my mouth and refused to rouse. Eventually I felt my top lip mold into my bottom, and I couldn’t open them no matter how hard I tried.

We stopped after that as my therapist suggested to my mom that I needed more serious help.

She always tried so hard to fix me; my guilt seeped farther into my necrotic flesh because I couldn’t help her.

I hurt everyone. I hurt everywhere.

\--

**The frost had** begun to thaw, the bite in the air to warm when Chanyeol showed up at my doorstep again, just like he had that winter. My dad told me maybe with the seasons, my mood would change. It was his way of showing his care, I knew, but it felt like a grater on my heart. 

Sorry, I’m getting distracted again.

Chanyeol had a backpack slung over his shoulder. “We haven’t seen each other in a bit.”

We had just seen each other that day at school. “No, I mean like, hung out, just the two of us.” It had been just the two of us at lunch, but I didn’t want to bother him by questioning further. I hadn’t understood the feeling at the time. The feeling of missing someone who is right next to you.

I understand a lot more things now.

“Um, okay, you wanna come in?” The coat rack by the door still held a grey woolen scarf almost half a year later. I knew if I stepped up to it, I could smell her. But I didn’t want to confirm this thought. I hung my things in the closet down the hallway.

“Sure. But I also brought some money if you wanted to go get dinner?” His nose must have caught the whiff of my mom’s cooking in the kitchen. “Or—I guess you have dinner. Um, it’s fine. We’ll schedule another time to hang out.”

I’d never heard him stumble so much through his words. He always seemed to have a confidence in syllables that I’d only seen in stuffy teachers and vainglorious (overly proud of one’s own accomplishments) businessmen.

How silly of me to think: not everyone struggles.

He was already halfway down my walkway when I spoke, “You can stay.” He stared back at me for a while. It felt like he was waiting for me to take it back. I’m glad I didn’t. This offer only scraped the surface of the amount of happiness that Chanyeol deserved.

“Okay,” he said in the end.

My parents were overjoyed to have him with us. My brother was on a work call in his room but joined us halfway through. Chanyeol kept looking around in this odd way. As if he couldn’t believe his eyes, as if he were waiting for the other boot to drop. Maybe he was just trying to commit every detail to memory. Maybe he was just trying to look interested.

Either way, while I can’t remember much of the words exchanged over this dinner, I remember the look in his eyes. It broke my heart even back then. Even back then, I felt my gaze was too harsh. Too harsh to be staring into those soft eyes. Those eyes so soft, I feared they’d crack and shatter.

This is getting a bit mawkish. I apologize. I’ve found myself missing him more than usual lately.

After dinner, my mom invited him to stay the night. His eyes lit up like he hadn’t brought an overnight bag, but they dimmed when they flicked to me to check if this turn of events was okay. I gave him a smile and offered to show him my room.

It was strewn with books and clothes and tablets and nintendos, but all he said was, “I knew you wouldn’t have any posters hanging up.” A frown curved my lips, making him giggle.

“I used to have an ACDC poster; it just fell behind my headboard,” I defended myself. I’m still not sure why I felt the need to.

“Sure. Yeah. Okay. I won’t check and embarrass you when there’s nothing there. You’re too drenched in your apathetic persona to pretend to show discrete interest in any one avenue.” I couldn’t fully grasp what he said, but it felt like a thinly-veiled insult so I made him help me push my obnoxiously heavy bed frame off the wall to prove him wrong. 

“All right. Fine, fine. Respect.” He held his hands up and gave me an impressed pout of the lips. “Oh, dude, I brought over this new game for us to play if you have an XBox.” 

Of course I did. What teenage boy didn’t? “The new Call of Duty?”

“Yup.” After some ferocious digging in his bag and some cursing, he sighed. “I grabbed the wrong disc case.” There was a lot of lint and dust behind my bed. I needed to ask my mom to reach back there when she vacuumed. “You wanna go back to mine and grab it?”

I’d zoned out again. He read my disoriented mein and elaborated. “I left the game at my house. Wanna go get it?”

“Sure.”

\--

**The kitchen counter** was flooded with mail and miscellaneous paperwork as was customary of Chanyeol’s household, but the vase of slightly droopy flowers. 

“What are the flowers for?” I questioned. They looked to have a day, perhaps, before their expiration neared and the tips of their petals began to wilt and dry.

His voice sounded from his bedroom across the hall, “Ah, it was Mom’s birthday Tuesday.” It was Friday.

I eyed the envelope cradled between its flowers. “Her boyfriend get those for her?”

“No, I did.”

“That was nice of you. Moms like things like that.” The mail was all addressed to Chanyeol’s mother, but the surnames differed on a few of them. Some matched Chanyeol’s while others matched my love’s mother’s maiden name.

“Yeah, I bet she’ll like them.” I didn’t know what to do with the future tense in that sentence; clearly my pause voiced my confusion as he elaborated. “She hasn’t seen them yet.” I was going to leave it at that, assuming he had gotten them a few days late. It seemed plausible enough, but, “Or maybe she has. I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, but I didn’t say things like that. My love would have because she understood when to say things like that and she never let her fears hold her back. But she was braver than I will ever hope to be. A coward, I stayed mute.

Back at my house, we played Modern Warfare until my mom came in to wish us a good night.

“You got any soda?” Chanyeol asked me after she left.

“Uh, my dad usually keeps a case of Coke in the back fridge. Want some?”

“Yeah, I’ll get some glasses with ice.”

It seemed weird to me to pour the Coke  _ out _ of one drinking container just to pour  _ into _ a different one, but I figured, to each their own.

After I poured the sodas into the cups about halfway, Chanyeol stopped me and took a water bottle out of his backpack. “Ever drank before?” he asked.

I had. Once or twice at parties my love had brought me to, but mostly just for show. I was always the one driving us home at the end of the night. “I haven’t, but better late than never, right?” He choked a small laugh out and poured a fair amount into each of our glasses.

Against my better judgement, I voiced nothing other than a somewhat strained laugh.

I took light sips while we continued playing; it wasn’t nearly diluted enough for my tastes, but not even a full round later, I looked to see Chanyeol’s glass empty.

We played for about an hour longer with Chanyeol speaking a tad too loud and laughing a tad too hard to be appropriate. 

I faked a yawn. “Let’s get to bed. I stayed up late studying for a bio test last night.”

We cleaned up, and I left to do my bathroom routine and splash water on my face while he got dressed.

Walking back into my bedroom, lights still on, I found Chanyeol, clothes not changed, clutching a picture frame of my love and me. It was from Homecoming our freshman year. I had accidentally kicked a soccer ball right at her face during P.E. class. I had been so embarrassed, but even with a split lip and puffy cheek, she still retained than cool confidence that fell off her like a waterfall. “You can make it up to me by asking me to homecoming,” she had said. I sputtered a little before she cut me off, “But it has to be official. I want a cute sign and to find you standing awkwardly outside my track practice while I act cute and surprised. Got it?”

I would have given her the world had she asked me to.

“It should have been me,” Chanyeol croaked. He had tears painting his cheeks in a delicate shine. He sniffled harshly and wiped the sleeve of his shirt messily across his face. The tears were coming out faster than he could dry the evidence. “It should have been me. You two deserved each other.” 

I deserve nothing.

“I just—” another loud sniffle, another onslaught of tears, “I just messed everything up. I—I only ruined things.” His sobs were getting uncontrollable. I was afraid they’d wake my parents. “It should’ve been me! Kyungsoo, it should’ve been me!” he cried. 

I don’t remember what I said or if I said anything, but I remember feeling a cold type of fear trickle down my spine. The kind of fear in a dream where you try to scream or fight only to find your voice comes out as a weak croak and your arms are too heavy for you to lift. A fear that I couldn’t fight. A fear that I was helpless. A fear that I didn’t understand what was in front of me.

That night I held him. I fell asleep sitting up against my headboard, a headful of Chanyeol’s snot and sobs on my chest. I fell asleep with my arms around him, knowing that if I could do anything, it was this…

… even if I didn’t understand it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted 3 nov 2020  
> 4.5k
> 
> thank you for reading


	4. Part 4

**I like when** it snows. That soft, ticklish kind of snow. The kind that seems like it’s only purpose is to float to the ground; it doesn’t stick, it melts on the ground, but in the air, it lives, it lives its ephemeral existence, its point of existence to float. I like it when it snows.

It was snowing that day.

“Do you think it’s worth it?”

He asked me this as we sat in the library; I was trying to finish an essay for AP Lit while Charlie was furiously checking application after application for a response. There were no guarantees. No GPA was ever high enough. No essay ever unique enough. No person special enough.

Oh to feel like a dot on a scatter plot.

To be nothing but a number.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” His clicking had stopped, I continued on with my sentence, fearing I’d lose its end.

“You’re not supposed to think like that. We do this because we do this. It’s how it works.” I couldn’t find an adjective that sounded educated enough without sounding overly flowery.

“That’s not what I meant.”

God, how many words for “quickly” were there that didn’t make me sound like a twelve-year-old but also didn’t make it seem like I used a thesaurus.

“Kyungsoo, that’s not what I meant.” I don’t think I’d ever heard him sound so bothered.

“Huh?” I remember the essay I was writing—I got my highest mark yet—but for the life of me, I could not tell you what it was about.

“Do you think it’s worth it? All of this? All of it? Do you?” The agitation in his voice finally struck me, and I met his eyes. 

I saw anger first. But like a fire, while the orange tips are most abundant, the true power resides closest to the flame. The red burned with hurt, its suffering consuming. Closer the blue blazed, and in it shined confusion, its light searching for answers. And at its core, desperation burned white-hot.

He’d made me lose my pace. “What’s your problem? What’s got you so worked up?”

Not doused, as it didn’t go out at once, but the flame lowered to a simmer, its oxygen depleted.

“I gotta run.” He threw his laptop and notes into the bag before flinging it over his shoulder and calmly exiting the library.

I don’t know if it’s worth it.

\--

**It was a** week before he spoke to me again. I’d never thought of how perilous my loneliness would get without him by my side. This whole time, I imagined myself alone pointlessly navigating a dark maze where the only escape was death—but no. He was with me. With me through every winding, twisted meander. And in that week, I had none of him. No late-night park runs, no random comments in Lit, no lunches beside the pine trees.

I was without him, and for the first time I realized I hadn’t been alone.

They tell me typically our brain’s linear timeline is hardly about time at all, and hardly linear; emotions dictate how long or important you remember an event. They tell me it’s unlikely he ignored me for a whole week.

But while I know not many things, I know this: I went without him for over seven days. And on the eighth, he texted:

**_“Walk home together?”_ **

The relief, along with something warm that smelt of safety, ran through my veins like an IV pumping you back to life.

**_“Yeah, meet under stairs?”_ **

**_“No, by the trees,”_ ** he answered. This struck me as odd; our last classes of the day let out much nearer to the stairs, and it was typically where we met up to begin the trek home together. But I didn’t question it.

I didn’t question a lot of things.

I was standing under the trees when I saw him. I was thinking about wind. About how it makes music with air. Just like we do; some of us blow wind into instruments, some pluck chords which resonate in the air with its melodies, some push breath through our teeth to blend sounds and syllables. And these make us feel things. Just like wind.

He comes from the direction of the parking lot. He’s wearing a sweat jacket over a graphic tee. No flannel. I wonder where his overcoat and backpack are. Was he perhaps not at school? Maybe he left his things in a classroom. It’s cold; he should have a jacket on. These are the things I think.

He stares me down as he walks up to me; no happy, bubbly Chanyeol in his step; I hardly notice this, though: I’ve missed him.

He stands in front of me. The darks of his eyes shine more intensely than I expect. “We don’t meet here,” I say because we don’t—we meet under the stairs, and this has been bothering me.

He doesn’t respond, but I watch as his pupils flicker from my left eye to my right. Movement catches my attention; I can see the field from here. The cross country team is running. Maybe it’s track. I can’t see their faces. It doesn't matter what team it is; I know she isn’t there regardless.

He’s still staring at me. I wonder why we haven’t begun walking yet. I take a breath to ask.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” he blurts. His pupils are shaking. My mouth is still open; I can feel the frosty breeze blowing into it. He takes a step closer. I look down. He’s wearing high tops—Converse. They’re beat up, and the toes are centimeters from mine. “Please, Kyungsoo, tell me you think it’s worth it.” 

I don’t understand. I want to say this, or maybe “I’m sorry.” And, and I can’t remember if I say anything. I hope I do. For him, I hope I do.

He grabs my face. And then, I tell you, he kisses me. 

His eyes are squeezed shut. I can count the wrinkles on his eyelids. One, two, three, ow. He pinches my cheeks. His hands are cold. I don’t think he’s been inside. His fingers, the ones on the apples of my cheeks and cradling my jaw—they’re cold. He wasn’t inside. His grip is strong. It’s shaking, it’s a plea. He’s begging. From the corner of my vision, I see the edge of his palm rattling and down from there the silicone bands. I look to my right, and there on his left hand falling almost beneath the jacket is the leather braid.

Wind. I can feel the breeze, and carried in it, I hear the ruffling of the leaves above. Their slight whisper. I hear a whistle. It’s basketball practice. The coach calls for the team to gather and begin warm-ups. 30 minutes. School let out 30 minutes ago, this means. What took Chanyeol so long? Why are his hands so cold? Why is he not wearing a coat? Why is the leather braid so special? Why is the most important question of all—and it’s the one I never asked.

But I think I know why now. I don’t think it’s worth it. But for you, maybe.

I’m in the process of tracing the changes of color on his cheeks when he pulls his lips from mine. His grip doesn’t loosen.

“I—” This was the first word—the only word—out of my lips. The first thing to leave them after Chanyeol. I hadn’t moved. For the record, I’m sorry. “I—” I gaped. If I closed my eyes, I thought I could feel the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. But of course—I hadn’t moved. “Chanyeol, I—”

“It’s okay,” he cut me off. It felt as though the tips of his toes were touching mine. But both of ours were covered by cloth and shoes and miles. He only had a zip-up jacket. He must have been so cold. I hadn’t realized I’d reached my hand out until he lowered it with his own. “It’s okay, Kyungsoo. I still just…needed to do that.”

I felt not a modicum of attraction, but I understood the dejection in his tone.

I should say something, I thought. But “should” is a funny world: it almost anticipates failure. An idea that will never see the light of day. A strive that will amount to nothing. Ah. The debilitating status of should.

And so I stood there, rosy-cheeked, glossy-lipped, and teary-eyed, watching him walk away.

I should have. But instead, I watched, watched the slope of each of his shoulders rise and fall with steps, all the while thinking:  _ I wish I could have loved you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.4k  
> short, but it needed to be
> 
> 12/2/2021


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